


Sing Me No Sad Eulogy

by azriona



Series: Hearts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lullabies, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, One Shot, Parenthood, Post Reichenbach, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t anyone’s first choice for a lullaby, but now that he knows it, John wouldn’t choose anything else to sing Emily to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Me No Sad Eulogy

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place more or less concurrently with Chapter Five in Dangerous Disadvantages, but could be read as a standalone. Probably. This is John’s return from shopping while Anna watches Emily. “He Plays the Violin” was written by Sherman Edwards with music by Peter Stone. Anna doesn’t have the words _quite_ right, but she didn’t have the luxury of looking them up beforehand. Major props to earlgreytea68 for the beta.

John heard the singing when he opened the door to 221 Baker. The plastic shopping bags dug into his fingers, and John set them on the floor with a relieved sigh the moment he stepped inside. 

“…tucks it right under his chin…” 

Anna Lestrade, of course. To Emily, more than likely. Emily didn’t seem to be complaining. It took a moment to uncurl his fingers, which had begun to cramp around the bag’s handles during the short walk from the Tesco. He should have taken the cloth bags; he normally did, but it was the first time he’d been out since Emily’s birth, and he’d been in such a rush to _leave_ … 

“…and he bows…oh, he bows…” 

John didn’t recognize the song; he half listened while he tried to rub feeling back into his fingers. The skin was bright red, with streaks of white, and he eyed the seventeen steps warily. 

“…for he knows, yes he knows…” 

With a sigh, John picked the bags up, and started up the stairs. Not much further now. 

“…for it’s high, high, high diddle-diddle. And God bless the man with his fiddle…” 

Oh. 

John paused, halfway up the stairs, and leaned against the wall. The paper was a bit rough against his cheek, and somehow, it kept John from falling. 

“…My strings are unstrung. High, high, high, hi-ii-iii-iigh…I am undone.” 

John breathed, and kept climbing the stairs. The door to the sitting room was ajar, and he pushed it open with his shoulder. 

Anna was in the center of the room, her back to him, Emily cradled in her arms, and so John watched her, holding his breath. Strands of hair had fallen out of the impromptu bun she’d created with an elastic and a chopstick, and the room was scattered with the debris of angry baby: three half-drunk bottles, four pacifiers, plush toys in every direction. The television was static, the lights were low, the shades were drawn. John could see Anna’s reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. She didn’t look tired at all – in fact, she looked down at Emily as she sang, a half smile on her face, eyes bright with unshed tears. 

Her voice continued, strong and sure. 

“I hear his violin, and I get that feeling within…” 

John closed his eyes. The word _stop_ was on the tip of his tongue. With his eyes closed, he could imagine Sherlock standing near the window, violin tucked under his chin, the bow poised and ready to draw down. In the image, Sherlock’s eyes were barely closed – softly, the lashes just brushing against each other. John would watch him, in the moment before he’d start to play, and everything in him was suspended in anticipation. 

“And I sigh, oh I sigh. He draws near, very near…” 

The bow would come down, slow and long, with a deep, resonant note, and every time, John would breathe again, exhaling what he didn’t know he held. Sherlock would play, eyes half closed. He’d move around the room, flawlessly, without tripping over anything, and John would listen and wait for Sherlock to come close enough to touch. 

“And it’s high, high, high diddle-diddle…” 

_Crash._

The cans of beans rolled on the floor; John struggled with the broken bag while Anna turned and saw him. “Oh—” 

“Sorry,” apologized John. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” 

“It’s all right. She’s asleep again.” 

“When did she wake?” 

“Just after you rang. It’s all right, we’re fine.” Anna jiggled Emily, still rocking back and forth, and John carried the rest of the shopping to the kitchen table. “Oh, _John_. Beans?” 

“I _like_ beans. And they’re easy and nutritious, and I bought an onion so you can stop worrying about scurvy. I can hardly expect you to cook for me every day.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“Greg might get jealous.” 

“Ah, he can stuff it,” said Anna cheerfully, and lowered her nose to touch Emily’s forehead. “Little love.” 

John smiled and tried not to feel jealous; it wasn’t as though he didn’t do the same with Emily a dozen times a day. He started to unpack the shopping. He waited to ask until he was putting the beans in the cupboard. Easier if he wasn’t looking at her, he thought. 

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I heard you singing.” 

“You were standing in the doorway, I rather thought you might have done.” 

“Something you made up?” 

“God, no. It’s a musical, I can’t remember who wrote it. _1776_ , all about the American Revolution. Does singing it to Emily make me unpatriotic?” 

“A bit,” said John, and couldn’t decide if he was relieved that Anna hadn’t made the song up, or a little worried that something quite _so_ personal existed already. 

“It’s Martha Jefferson, singing about Thomas. He played the violin, you know.” 

“Ah.” The beans were away; John turned around and saw Anna peering at him, her forehead in lines. 

“Do you…you don’t mind?” 

“Did it put Emily asleep? Then I don’t mind a bit,” said John firmly. 

Anna looked relieved. “I couldn’t think of what else to sing, honestly. She was crying and crying and I didn’t want to ring and worry you, and I couldn’t even remember the tune to Happy Birthday, I was so flustered.” 

“Anna,” said John, gently. “It’s all right. It sounds like a lovely song.” 

“I couldn’t remember all the words,” admitted Anna, and Emily began to shift in her arms. 

“Here,” said John, glad for the excuse to get out of the conversation, and Anna transferred the baby to him. Emily stretched her arms above her head and yawned. 

“Go sit,” said Anna, running her fingers gently over Emily’s head. “I should start cooking, if we’re going to eat at a reasonable hour.” 

“I’m a single dad with a newborn, there’s no such thing as a reasonable hour,” said John, and left Anna to the kitchen. 

* 

Later, much later, after dinner and football and beer with Greg, after John had managed a few hours sleep and Emily was tucked into her bassinet with a full tummy and her hand by her ear, John went online and looked up the rest of the song. His heart caught in his throat. 

_When heaven calls to me_  
 _Sing me no sad eulogy_  
 _Say I died, loving bride_  
 _Loving wife, loving life…_

Sorrow hit him so quickly that John barely had time to cover his eyes with his hands. Everything hurt, from his throat to his stomach, his chest heaving and contracting all at once, and John hunched over, struggling to hold it in. 

No. No. No. No. No. _Stop_. Get it together, Watson. Breathe. Breathe. This is….I can’t… _no_. 

Gradually, his shoulders stopped shaking, and every deep breath let him sit up a little straighter. The pain in his chest subsided, just enough to be bearable, and John blinked and wiped away the dampness under his eyes. 

It took a moment to find a spare bit of paper, and another minute to find a pen. 

In the morning, when the sunlight streamed in the windows, while Emily had her early morning feed, John set the paper where he could see it easily, and made it nearly through the first stanza before his throat thickened and he couldn’t sing another note. 

It took a week before he even made it through to the end, and his voice wobbled a little, and it became increasingly difficult to sing the correct notes at all. 

But he sang it, every day, and the song was memorized long before he was able to sing it without having to stop for breath. 

Every time, Emily watched him, eyes wide and curious, then with slow blinks, and finally sliding closed in sleep. 

Every time, John imagined Sherlock, standing by the window, bow in hand, ready to play.


End file.
